


Of the regent with pain

by TheIronyMan



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Captive Prince - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:16:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26730514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIronyMan/pseuds/TheIronyMan
Summary: with passion for the regent, with pain for himself.
Relationships: Laurent/Regent (Captive Prince)
Kudos: 6





	Of the regent with pain

“The curse ruled from the underground  
down by the shore

And their hope grew with a hunger  
to live unlike before

(...)

Do you know this stranglehold  
covering their eyes?”  
The Curse— Agnes Obel

There was silence. That was how Paschal remembered all the other times that he devotedly attended to the Regent's children, the one who, for the time being, proclaimed himself king.

He went alone through the corridors of flagstones with ornate floors, what he did there was a secret of three; he, the Regent and the unfortunate man who had to give in to the wishes of an expert and pragmatic manipulator in the art of obtaining the pleasure he desired. Pleasures, of course, boys.

There was a room, not far, not even close to the royal quarters the Regent occupied. It was known to everyone as the “Regalia”, Paschal saw and called the rooms in another way, depending on the day and what he found on the fine sheets.

He had been called, this time by the Regent instead of one of his security men, informed only that, whatever he found, it was of extreme secrecy, that no one could ever know it. It was an agreement, one he had made long ago, under the command of the new and false king. But there was something else, the Regent himself did not go after his services, not for boys in the bedroom.

\- Go, treat him, do not question, do not raise erroneous assumptions about his life and status before the court of my men.

It was the words that broke from the lips hidden under a black beard, with few flashes of advancing age. Paschal was gone, he would go regardless of who called him. Although something in his heart warned him of strange, wrong things. Of course, all concrete when he reached the door to the empty corridor. There were no men there to guard it, it was not even necessary. The men knew that their master's disposable consort should not be touched.

He did not introduce himself, whoever was there, expected his presence. And yet, of course, I had the suspicion that I was going to find the Regent's consort, Heron.

Young, but that was all. But Heron was in his mid-twenties. He knew little of the world, while he knew a lot about the dirty and dark side that made up evil with smiles and promises of status and pleasure. Blond, white skin, immaculate, at least that's how Paschal remembered him; pure, chaste. He would find something else there, a new brushstroke in that still-smooth frame of ornaments.

The wood had a heavy touch when on that side of the fortress at Vere. He pushed her away, entering in silence out of respect for those waiting for him there. In the room lay on trays everything a doctor would need, except the mask that prevented him from exposing his initial shock when he saw it there, not the Regent's consort.

The blond strands were similar, but the eyes were as distinct as fire and ice. He didn't have Heron's green eyes, nor the delicate mark on his chin under full, pink lips. He was the same height, although a little older. He closed the door, now afraid that one of the Regent's men would break his orders and go there. He approached calmly, restrained, like a tamer when approaching a wild beast. His blue eyes scanned her every move, he felt himself under the sight of an archer about to target the arrow through the flesh. Like a cornered animal, he was on the bed, dressed from head to toe, nothing to show why he was there, although he needed little time to reach the result of that equation, and Paschal was not stupid.

"Your Highness." The modest bow, but respectful enough to make room for your eyes and the dread of being in front of the one who, in years to be crowned your king.

"He was called here, because if we took him to my quarters, everyone would fear that something serious had happened to the Prince de Vere, do you understand?" - The tone was polite, unyielding to his fears and desires, they did not let anything pass by but a calculated and trained coldness.

Laurent would make this a great show, even at a young age. And so he forced Paschal to play the other role on the scene. Silently accept whatever was imposed on you, don't ask. Do not meddle in matters of the crown, because that is how they would classify you. He dared not ask why the Prince de Vere and Acquitart were there, in the "Regalia". He just came over to do his job, whatever he was at that moment.

Laurent stood up, the height of a prepubertal, the coolness of Vere's royalty, his blue eyes and golden hair. She watched him tug at the sleeve of his garment; tie after tie untied and finally the fabric went up on the skin, revealing the marks on the white skin. Laurent, in Paschal's eyes, had the whitest skin on record. It was marked with the ease of white linen on fire.

"I got hurt during training," he commented at the doctor's watchful eye.

Paschal knew that those were not training marks, he knew the marks that a fencer would have, he knew the marks that an archer would have, a pitcher, a batter. Those were fingerprints firm on sensitive skin and now stained.

He moved a little closer, the right hand touching Laurent's fist, his pulse quickening delivering the boy's discomfort at being touched. He fought the urge to look him in the eye, to question him the real reason for the string of fingers on his fist. He analyzed them well, got salvia for a massage. He spread it out, a silence worthy of the dead.

He waited.

And waited.

Laurent kept his chin up, consumed with pride and coldness, so typical of a spoiled prince, so divergent from the attitudes of those who are abused. Since he was a child he seemed to hide well and let only what he wanted to see when he looked at himself appear.

\- There's also on my back.

He waited. She waited for him to turn, for the intricate knots of his robe to be undone by the small hands of the Prince de Vere. The red marks on the white skin, phalanxes and palms marked on the small back, horrified near the neck, between the shoulder blade and the nape, were horrified. Like an animal marked on intercourse. He swallowed, tried to spread it there as well, which would ease the discomfort and bring softness to the muscles punished by the effort that, he knew, a young man was not used to enduring.

He felt the stiffness of the flesh, the tight muscles, the prince's effort to stay in place, not to give in to fear, to dread, to the disgust of being touched.

There were small things that paschal noticed too, now up close. There was a smell of wine, and not in the room at Laurent. There was a blur in the cold eyes, a blur of those who were still trying to locate themselves and stay healthy. 13 years old, that was not the age to drink, but it was also not the age to be on the battlefield, and Laurent had been in Marlas, where he lost not only his childhood, but also his father and brother. Everything indicated ... he had lost everything.

"Don't question, don't raise erroneous assumptions," the Regent's words hammered in his mind, coming and going in the space that fit Laurent's silence under his professional and distant touches. The prince was trembling.

\- Somewhere else, Your Highness? - He said the words in the most respectful way he can, taking two steps away so that, if Laurent turned, there would be comfort between them and not the indiscretion of being face to face with the future king.

He was afraid to ask, "Were you raped?", "Does your uncle know?", But then he knew that, if it was the case, his uncle knew. After all, she called him over there, where she left her boys from the alcove, where, after nights of sex, she left them in the care of a doctor to treat the marks that were hidden by golden makeup. The gold to hide abuse.

\- Only.

It was little Laurent's way of doing his job, pulling his robes back on his body, hiding under layers of fabric and spite. coldness.

\- Excuse me. - The bow had regret. Paschal felt the weight of knowledge on his shoulders as, step by step, he moved away from Laurent again, turning on his own heels to follow back down the path that led him there.

Marlas was left behind, the defeat on the battlefield, the loss of Rei and the rightful heir. Until then, Paschal did not know how much more Laurent was losing his body and fragments of his core when he remained alive in the middle of the court of Vere, his home, his fort. This fort did not protect it from outside attacks, but enclosed it to receive those inside. When the door closed he heard it. The body falling to the floor, the fists punching the floor, the painful cry of those who lived in pain.

There, in the moment of his nightmare, Laurent felt disgust, disgust, dread. He spread the sage on his lips to get rid of the sweet taste of the wine that had become bitter when he also felt the lips of the one who should have protected it, not used it and abused it. He cried, as he did not allow himself while his uncle treated him as in a dispute of egos and keen minds. So helpless to the fate that awaited him.

He would never again allow himself to be so close and alone with his uncle. When day broke and he was back in his quarters, he decreed that, as a prince, he would need a royal guard. From safe, watchful quarters. Men who obeyed only his orders, and only his own, untouched by the Regent and his power.

He surrounded himself with protection, moved away from the wines offered to him by his uncle in the middle of dinners. He closed himself off to everything and everyone, afraid of what he would have to endure if they knew that the prince was no longer pure, deflorated, devoured and, in part, deformed by the one who was left of his family to protect him.

Out, not just one, unfortunately.

It was the Regent's; with passion for him, with pain for himself.


End file.
